But Raymond meant to make sure before he accepted defeat. He spurred himself to the test with the name of Emily Tweksbury on his lips. That name seemed to hold all his responsibilities and hopes--his long-ago past; the only claim upon the future except---- And in this Raymond was sincere. His own honest love for the girl who had entered his life so soon after his doubt of himself had had birth made him fear to put his feet upon the broad highway. But he braced himself for effort and on a stormy, sleety January afternoon he telephoned to Nancy and asked her if she were to be free that evening. She was. And--to his shame Raymond heard it gleefully--she had a "sniffy little cold" that made going out impossible. "Are you afraid of sniffy colds?" asked Nancy, "they say they are catching!" "I particularly like them," Raymond returned. "We'll have a big fire in the sunken room and," here Nancy gurgled over the telephone, "we'll toast marshmallows." Raymond presented himself as early as he dared and was told by the maid to go to the sunken room. Believing that Nancy was there awaiting him, he approached with a beaming countenance. Cameron stood with his back to the roaring fire. "Hello, Ken!" he blurted, cheerfully. "You look like a gargoyle." "Thanks!" All the light and joy fled at the sight of the big fellow by the hearth. Dispiritedly, Raymond sat down and resigned himself to what he believed was the inevitable. Cameron regarded him critically as he might have a puzzling case. Then, having made a diagnosis, he prescribed: "Sorry to see me here, old chap?" "Why in thunder should I be?" Raymond glared. "No reason--but then reason isn't everything. Nancy's a bit off--I'd hate to have her confront that mug of yours, Ken, if I can soften it up any. I came to bring some medicine from Uncle David--he's worried about colds these days. Nancy told me you were coming, she went upstairs to take her dose in private--she told me to stay and give you the glad hand and explain. Somehow you don't look exactly appreciative." "Sorry!" Raymond found himself relaxing. "Want me to kiss you?" "Try it! I'd like to have a fling at you. What's up, anyway, Ken? See here, old man, you know there might be any one of twenty fellows here to-night--you ought to be on your knees thanking heaven that it's I--not one of the twenty." "What the devil do you mean?" Raymond got up, tried to feel resentment but could not. "Nothing, only I'm going and--well, Ken, don't be an ass. It don't pay." Raymond tried to think of something to say, but before the right thing occurred he heard Cameron's cheerful whistle cut off by the closing of the heavy front door. Then he sat down by the fire and did some thinking. It was the kind of concentrated thought that separates the chaff and wheat; foregoes the glitter of romance and reaches out for the guiding, unfailing light of reality.